


Almost But Not Quite

by Vinctia



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: And imagined death, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Rated M for rape-fantasies, Super deep friendship, Unsure if I should put that as a warning since it's just imagined and not real, and blood, not really a romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 01:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11197311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vinctia/pseuds/Vinctia
Summary: Exploration of Regis' and Geralt's platonic friendship. Also features that one time at Tesham Mutna that made everyone want to hug the heck out of Regis.





	1. Bloodlust

There were several moments where he couldn't help but think that this was a bad idea. In the end, it didn't matter what he thought; the results would be the same, whether he liked it or not. There was no going back now, hanging in the cage as he was. Point of no return.

And then the first ghoul broke through, hunger clinging to its ribs. Geralt danced around it, flicking his sword across it in shallow cuts to make it bleed profusely. Dark sprays of blood coated the floor before long, the creature growling and whimpering before the witcher severed its head.

The beast within growled, clawing at his insides to get out. When it all came down to it, he was a monster wearing a man's skin. He took a deep inhale, forcing the sticky metallic air into his lungs, forcing himself to smell it, sense it, taste it. It would hasten the state he so sought to put himself in. Hunger gnawed at his abdomen, thirst crawled at the back of his throat, it was a hell all on its own.

 

"Maybe we need a safe word? You know, something you'll say when you can't take it any more," Geralt suggested below him, the sound of his sword singing through the air.

 

Regis almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Mostly to mask what he knew a safe word could be used for. Oh Geralt, if you only knew...  
He shook his head of indecent thoughts, or tried to. It was difficult as he felt the beast curl and twist within him, wanting to maim, shred, tear, rut, feed, drink, bathe in blood.  
"And what would you do once I uttered it?"  
  
Another beast felled at the witcher's silver, one more pool of blood on the floor beneath him. Devourer, the stench of rot in the air. But the blood... _so tasty_...

"Don't know. Uh, calm you down... somehow..."

To this he almost laughed, but the intake of metallic-laced air left his head dizzy, spinning again, a whirl of blood and thirst. The thought was touching, however. It was good to know that his friend cared for him, it warmed him.

"Please, Geralt. You won't be able to. We must forge through this, that is all," his voice was wavering, but he meant it. He had to mean it. The intake of air was a mistake though, involuntary, setting his senses ablaze with the blood scent.

 

He snarled, pulled at the metal around his wrists, bashing his head against a bar. Oh, it was difficult now as more blood spilled below him, droplets flying in slow arches, dripping from Geralt's silvery blade.

The beast tore at him and he instinctually fought back, while his waking mind was torn between the beast and himself. He had to give up and soon, they needed his boiling blood.

 _Blood_...

 

"Nnnraaagh... that _smell_..." he snarled, before slamming his head against the bars again, a whimper leaving him. The pain. The thirst, the hunger, the sheer need. He'd be a rutting beast before long; craving, longing, killing, thirsting, tearing open veins to revel in their sweet, sweet taste and narcotic influence over him. Blood was a cruel, cruel mistress and he hadn't forgotten just how cruel she could be. All those evenings spent in brothels, in alleyways, in dark shadows where no one could disturb him came back tenfold, reminding him just how easy it was to slip into the bloodlust induced oblivion.

 

"Hanging in there?" he heard Geralt say somewhere beneath him. Regis found he couldn't place him, couldn't pick him out from the advancing necrophages... A Fleder somewhere, he could hear it, felt it tug and pull at his vampiric blood. This was his territory and that _poxy Fleder wasn't allowed here! My territory! **MINE!**_

 

"It... it grows... worse and worse... but I shall overcome..." he assured the witcher, even as the beast tore at him, the hunger, the thirst. He soon wouldn't be able to tell the difference between the bloodlust and who he was. And truly, in the end, they were one and the same, whether he'd like to admit or not... _No! I am no slave to blood, not any more! **Is that what you tell yourself to sleep better at night? A lie so sweet?**_

 

"Good, 'cause I hear more coming!"

 

Ghouls, Devourers and Scurvers crawled out of the woodwork like termites, hissing, spitting and growling for food they had smelled from the bowls of their nests. They barrelled into Geralt, sensing flesh to be eaten. Regis made the mistake of looking down then, seeing his friend get wounded. He knew he would not die, his mutations would allow him to heal but... It put another urgency, another desperation to this stupidly dangerous plan of theirs.

 

"Geralt..." he managed to gurgle forth between thoughts of need. And then he sensed it, smelled it. Heard it. A katakan. A rival, a lesser coming to partake in the feast below him, to steal what was rightfully **_his_**.

A thick snarl tore from his throat, teeth lengthening something fierce. He downright roared, claws fighting to be freed, to defend what was his.

_**My feast, my blood, my territory, my human to rut! I will kill whoever touches him! He is mine! I will suck the blood from his veins, strip his corpse and claim it! Mine! Mine, mine, MINE!** _

 

He could speak nothing but growls, snarls and guttural noises of hunger. The cage lowered and wild, blood-crazed eyes met cat-like ones. Oh, how he spat at him, threw himself at the cage, tugged hard at the shackles around his wrists. It got even worse when the witcher drew blood, speaking words Regis could hardly understand in his state of mind.

And then the white-haired whoreson had the _audacity_ to simply _sit_ and _meditate_ in front of him! A prey, a morsel just within reach, one to feast upon, one to fuck into the blood-soaked floor, to dominate, to prove that this was his and no one else's. He could smell the blood on him, both the witcher's and the necrophages', the Fleder's, _**that smear of useless flesh had no right to attack my prey!**_ The rage ran through him like a lake of fire. Oh, the things he'd do to him were he free...

 

_The cage sprung open, leaving the beast free reins to do as he pleased. With a silent sneer on his face, showing off every pointed tooth in his mouth, he carefully stepped around the meditating witcher, assessing him from every angle. It was tempting to toy with him, to play with him like some oversized cat. But he was thirsty, hungering, lusting. Bestial needs came before all others._

_Without a sound, he lunged at the white-haired prey, toppling him to the ground and holding him down with his immense strength, staring into cat-like eyes that opened with shock and fear written in them. The beast wearing Regis' face knew that the little witcher knew he could not best him. He was but a mortal and mortals are so easily fended off. An insect caught between his fingers._

_A snarl tore from his throat as he bit down on the other man's pale one, eliciting a pained groan. Perfect crimson blood poured into his mouth, urging him to drink, to enjoy, to taste and drain him dry. Ahh, but if he did, he would not have all his needs satisfied. With a growl he pulled back, pointed tongue lashing out to lick along his lips and catch all stray drops. His grin was wide now as yellow eyes stared at him with fear..._

 

_With outrageous strength he flipped the witcher over, pinning his face and front to the floor. Hands were collected in one clawed one behind his back, holding him securely down as the other shredded any clothes that might be in the way. He could smell the fear now, see the sweat pearl on pale skin as he laid bare beneath him. Lust drove him, a singular need to rut someone and fulfil his own desires. This little witcher would do nicely._

_A chest-deep growl escaped him, a pained groan from the white-haired one beneath him. He moved his hips hard and fast, growls and snarls escaping his throat. Claws dug into pale flesh, drawing more delicious blood which he bent down to lap up mid-coitus. The pace didn't slow down, didn't gentle. His bloodied claws grabbed the back of the witcher's head, tugging his hair to bring him up and crane his neck to the side, exposing his bruised, wounded neck once again._

_Sharp fangs sunk into his flesh, barely a groan escaping his one time friend as the beast sated himself on his body. Growls rose from the vampire's chest, snarls rumbling through his prey as he neared his completion. Blood-crazed eyes went wide and with a loud roar, his hips snapped one last time, hard._

 

_Teeth tore into the pale flesh before him, claws raked into fragile skin, blood poured out onto the filthy dungeon floor, and with it, the witcher breathed his last sigh..._

 

Sounds. Someone else moving. Words. Regis fell, his wrists freed from their bonds, his body collapsing from exhaustion. A hand grasped his. Geralt. A dream... it was just a dream. A bloodlust induced frenzied nightmare, conjured up by his bestial nature.

 

"The concoction..." he managed, finding something else to think about, something to distract him, something to keep his thoughts from what his mind had just showed him. He heard rather than saw Geralt ripping the cage door open, his tired body falling on the floor. Strong hands and arms lifted him off the floor, flinging one of his over a broad shoulder to bear him, aid him on the way out of this cursed hole.

 

"You can't finish it in this state. Tell me how, I'll help you," his friend promised, tone... somewhat worried. Pitying. There was more to the witcher than his stoic face, as if Regis didn't know that by now. Now that they were moving, the vampire grimaced. Not due to his exhausted state but due to the fact his pants felt rather... sticky. His conclusion was an involuntary reaction to his fevered nightmare and his bestial state in an unholy union.

 

Well. At least it wasn't an erection. That would've been rather awkward to explain.

 

 


	2. Squirrel-snare

He had thought it was a bad idea somewhere during his time in Tesham Mutna, but he had still gone with it. And he'd do it again if need be. But... as Geralt writhed on the mattress, sweat on his brow, face scrunched up in pain, Regis couldn't help but think it was a really, really bad idea. Had he... had he murdered his dearest friend without realizing it?

He let out a shuddered breath, trying to stabilize himself, rid himself of worry. Geralt would be fine, his mutations would allow him to live... he hoped. He hoped so very dearly. But among those thoughts of worry were other, more insistent thoughts. Those of his... nightmare during Tesham Mutna.

He had stealthily switched out clothes, getting rid of the feeling between his legs. It disgusted him that his own body had betrayed him so, becoming aroused at such sights. But in the end, he had done it before and there was no way for him to deny this. It was the base truth. All those years past, when blood was the only thing on his mind.

 

Maidens fair, strapping lads, a random passersby when the thirst grew too dire. He'd indulged too much, too far. Had rutted himself to oblivion on more than one occasion with an expired prey. The thought made him grimace, cold emotions rising in his chest. It was one thing to be young and idiotic in a haze of bloodlust... It was another to realize those _urges_ weren't as dead as he'd like them. It was a whole third to portray those urges with one he held so dear.

Geralt was his friend, his dearest friend. His waking, sane mind couldn't imagine doing anything to harm him. Quite the contrary; he could imagine several ways he'd hurt anything else to keep him safe. But the base, bestial creature that lay beneath the surface had wanted Geralt. Smelled his blood upon the air, _wanted_ to harm him, hurt him, drain him of blood and then _take_ him on the blood-soaked stone floor.

He didn't like it. By the gods, he didn't like it. He stared at his hands, the same hands he had imagined wrapped around the witcher's neck, claws drawing blood, opening a vein for him to drink greedily from. He didn't want this. He didn't want this monster, this beast within him that could tear apart any man stupid enough to cross him on the wrong day. But he had to live with it.

 

Tired eyes looked at the squirming witcher, twitching having died down a bit now. His breath was somewhat even, deep. He still looked a bit pained but not as much as before. Regis had the urge to hold him, somehow leech his invulnerability to him, to give him the strength he needed to pull this through. He couldn't, but he would if he had been able. Geralt was his closest, his dearest friend and there was much he'd do for him. He didn't want him to die, he didn't want him to suffer. He wanted him to be happy, despite what the beast's intentions had been.

But the beast's intentions didn't matter in the end, even if Regis decided to act upon them, for Geralt was a taken man and he could not spoil that. He had seen his eyes when Geralt spoke of his dear Yennefer, seen the love he held for her. He wouldn't dare spoil that and it only made him happy to know that his witcher friend was happy. It made him happy to know that someone was waiting for Geralt when he came home. And in all honesty, Yennefer was not a bad choice for the stoic witcher. Regis was happy for both of them, even if the beast snarled at the notion.

But it was only the beast.

 

"Nnnhh..." the groan caught the vampire's attention, witcher-eyes opening once again with life in them. A stone fell from his heart and he could breathe a little easier.

 

"Awake at last. You writhed like a squirrel caught in a snare. I'd begun to fear they were death throes, that you'd... departed," Regis couldn't help the little pang of worry in his voice. Geralt groaned as he sat up, looking a bit worse for wear. He looked how Regis felt, in all honesty.

 

"Sure wasn't pleasant... but it worked."

 

"What did you see?"

 

 


	3. Three Days

"Three days of doing absolute fuck all!" Geralt borderline sneered. He wasn't one for losing his temper often, the mutagens and rigorous training kept him in check. But this was frustrating. They'd been running corners with the duquessa, telling her to just release Syanna to Dettlaff, let her go to Tesham Mutna and avoid Beauclair going up in flames. But no. No no. She wanted his head on a platter, nothing less would do it. So, in-between growling matches, Geralt and Regis had been looking for clues, leads, anything to find Dettlaff before there'd be hell to pay. But none was to be found and they were running out of time.

 

"I know, my friend, I know. But as I've said before; if Dettlaff does not want to be found, you will not find him. And as I've said more than once these past three days; this is a waste of our time... An admirable, heartfelt try, surely, but alas still a waste of precious time we don't have enough of," Regis sat down by his desk, eyeing a bottle he always kept around. If not for the alcohol then at least for the taste of it. Whether it was mandrake or grapes only a taste would tell anyone who wasn't Regis. Despite unlabelled bottles, he knew what was what in his arsenal of concoctions.

 

"We both want to find Dettlaff," Geralt argued. It wasn't often that the stoic witcher would pace, as his kind 'didn't get the jitters'. The vampire remembered him saying that sometime, but right now the wolf was actually pacing back and forth like a caged beast. He couldn't help but be reminded of his time in Tesham Mutna and a small shudder ran down his spine. Not one of the enjoyable ones either.

 

"I know, Geralt. But he does not want to be found and thus we won't see him. It would be better if we planned out what to do once the third day comes to an end. As much as I don't want to think him capable of razing Beauclair from the ground up, I sadly know that he has the power to do just that," Regis reached out to grab the bottle and take a swig. Nothing else to be done. Their time was wasting away and the duchess was unbending.

 

"Fine. What do you propose then?" Geralt asked, finally sitting down instead of making a trail in the necropolis floor.

 

"I propose we sit tight for now and prepare for the worst. The duchess allows us nothing, but at least she doesn't have eyes set upon us at all times. As long as we're not directly in her sights, she'll think us out hunting for Dettlaff. So, my plan is to stay right here, brew your potions, oils, bombs, what have you, and report back to Anna Henrietta with the same words we've been using the past two days; nothing," Regis said and took another swig of the bottle. Being ever the generous creature he was, he held it out towards Geralt.

A few moments passed with the witcher running his options around in his head, grinding them down and trying to find a solution to this stagnation. Finding nothing better, he sighed heavily and snatched the bottle out of his friend's hand and took a swig himself. Mandragora. Of course. He barely drank anything else. Strong, burning and perfect for a situation like this where you just have to accept the terms and live with it.

 

"Fine. Can't say it sits well with me, but fine. Not like there's a lot of options," he somewhat reluctantly agreed. Regis nodded solemnly, crossing his arms and stared at a spot on the floor, thoughts running by in his mind as well. It was infuriating to simply sit and do nothing when they knew that something big was coming. The vampire could feel it and he was dead certain that Geralt could feel it as well. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Dettlaff's words rang strangely like truth in his ears. 'I promise' he'd said. Promises are not made lightly, not by anyone and certainly not by vampires. Certainly not by Dettlaff. This could only end badly, one way or another...

Again, his wayward thoughts began moving towards Tesham Mutna. The thoughts, the feelings he'd endured there. He was loathe to admit it but they had been consuming him for a while now. Thoughts of the beast and how easily it wanted to copulate with Geralt. It wasn't hard to conclude it was because he was the only living being in the dungeon at the time, but still it troubled him. He would never, could never harm his friend. Never. The very thought that a part of him had wanted to do just that at the time had shaken Regis up quite badly. He didn't show it though, he was quite stoic himself. He had gotten good at hiding things of that nature, like some ill cat that refused to show just how ill it was.

Geralt was dear to him. He had been his first thought on his mind when he was able to make conscious thoughts again after his... death. The memory of white-hot fire and molten rock had churned in his mind for weeks, coupled with white hair and cat-like eyes. He didn't know his friend's fate, yearned to know what had happened and had no answers. Dettlaff had been kind then, venturing into the world to find knowledge for him. Bits and pieces, legends and myths and folk-tales from the North about a white-haired witcher causing all manner of troubles. He had smiled then, a happy sigh in knowing his old friend was still alive.

 

And when he had finally seen him in the warehouse, alive and kicking, his heart had swelled in his chest. Well, perhaps not the actual muscle, considering the hand Dettlaff had punched through him, turning the tissue to mush in its path. Still a part of him had warmed to the core, happy to see, to hear his old friend again. It was one thing to hear tales about someone you care for, it was another thing entirely to see them again in the flesh, alive and well.

 

"Hm. I wonder, Geralt. What were your thoughts when you spied me again in that warehouse?" he asked then, a light chuckle to his voice as he looked over to his hunched over friend, looking every bit as familiar as before the incident with Vilgefortz. Perhaps with a longer beard.

 

"That I was finally going mad and seeing things. Maybe seeing a ghost. Took a few moments to realize it was actually you. Didn't really believe it, actually, even when you talked... Really started to believe it when I hugged you. That it was really you. Last time I saw you, Vilgefortz was turning you into part of the castle," he said, emotion tickling at the edge of his voice. Geralt wasn't one for showing emotion, wasn't one to share it too often. But Regis had sensitive hearing and caught it all. He had been worried for him. Mourned him perhaps. The thought was heart-warming.

 

"Rather spectacularly too, might I add..." Regis spoke lightly, a slight smile on his lips. He could laugh now when the incident was so far away and they were both alive and well. But he couldn't begin to imagine the emotions Geralt had been going through at his expense.

 

The witcher nodded but didn't speak another word on it. It wasn't on his mind. He didn't want to discuss it, didn't want to rip up old wounds. The feeling was mutual. Besides, idle conversation was not Geralt's favourite pasttime and Regis could sense that. So he left it, for both their sakes.

The bottle passed between the two of them a few times before it was emptied out entirely. Once it was, Geralt stood to find some desk space and started working on oils and potions for the battle that might come. Regis stood as well and went to fetch another bottle of his mandrake hooch.

 

Or maybe wine this time, switch it up a bit.

 

 


	4. Be It Ever So Humble

The sun would not rise for a while yet. The evening was beautiful to behold and there was enough mandrake cordial for both the vampire and the witcher. It burned perfectly, reminding Regis of simpler times. Simpler, more complicated times, in truth. It had always been a soup of intrigue, misunderstandings, betrayal, vengeance and idiots who didn't want to understand how the world was put together. He theorized it would remain that way until the end times. Humans changed, indeed, but they always remained the same at heart.

 

But for now, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Absolutely nothing mattered but the starry sky, the taste of wine still lingering at the back of his throat, the fresh taste of mandrake hooch on his tongue. It was often said that mixing your alcohols wasn't good for you, but it had been one of those weeks for both of them. To hell and high water with what is and isn't good for you, it didn't matter.

 

"How do you like my personal brew? Not too strong?" Regis asked, looking over at his friend. The friend whose choices had changed so much. Whose choices had saved another friend in need... Whose choices had let a young woman's consequences get to her. Only the softest pangs of regret pulled at him, but he'd indulge those emotions another time. Not now. Not here with the stars shining above and his dearest friend sitting by the fire.

 

Geralt smiled and looked back at him. It was a small smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes, but it didn't have to. His eyes spoke volumes that his face didn't. He was forgetting everything if just for a short while. If just for one night.

 

"Just right," he told him, taking a gulp of his cup to underline that fact. He then reached for the pitcher to pour himself another cup, only to find it empty. Which he let out an amused snort at, making Regis smile and shake his head.

 

"Got more in yours?" he asked. Regis reached for it and felt the weight. More than enough. He stood to walk over to his friend and sit next to him on the rock. Geralt hadn't expected that but he wasn't complaining. His eyes just smiled more and he held out his cup for Regis to fill, which he did. Potent, perfect mandrake brew.

Setting the pitcher down, Regis wrapped an arm around Geralt's shoulders, giving him a light squeeze and making the witcher look at him.

 

"Thanks Geralt. For everything. For being alive, for helping me after Tesham Mutna, for trusting me... For being my friend. Thank you," Regis told him, smile on his lips, eyes emotional. He had wanted to tell him that for a while but now he had gotten the chance to do just that. To his happy surprise, Geralt wrapped his own arm around his friend's shoulder to return the one-armed embrace.

 

"You're welcome, Regis... And thank you for not being dead. And thank you for the brew, couldn't imagine an evening like this without it," he said, prompting a laugh from Regis. He gave his shoulder a friendly pat before standing again to get back to his seat across the fire.

 

"It's the least I could do, Geralt. It's the very least I could do."

 

 


End file.
